


the way things are

by SilverStorm0



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan
Genre: Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Depression, Have I mentioned angst yet, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicide, because there's angst, bird metaphors, there is no happy ending for this child
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:40:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24959287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverStorm0/pseuds/SilverStorm0
Summary: I got mad again so here ya go, some concentrated angst.
Kudos: 8





	the way things are

**Author's Note:**

> I got mad again so here ya go, some concentrated angst.

There comes a time in most demigod’s lives where they know something is wrong.

Strange things happen to and around them. Dangerous things.

The lucky ones never find out.

The more powerful a demigod’s deific parent, the quicker things turn ugly.

* * *

At four years old, Maeve was good at finding places to hide. Sometimes Mommy was angry. Mommy just was like that, and Maeve did things that Mommy didn’t like.

It was better this way. She liked being alone. Small, empty spaces felt nice.

* * *

At six, Maeve no longer enjoyed hiding. She hid out of fear. Fear of pain, fear of broken glass, fear of herself.

 _Things_ happened around her, and even though she didn’t understand‒ _couldn’t_ understand‒and they were always her fault.

Things went missing. Tools, keys, toys. Once, an entire case of beer. Maeve wished her mom would stop drinking, and that afternoon it was gone.

Mom yelled at her.

* * *

At seven, Maeve knew her mother was scared of her, too.

So she took to staying away from her mom. It was easy enough to go play outside, so long as her mother didn’t catch her on the way out.

On one trip she found a pocket knife and, curious, chopped her hair short with it.

Her mother screamed at her.

Maeve snuck stale bread out when she could, for the birds. They were always so pretty, so happy.

* * *

Eight was when the aches started. If she became too emotional, it felt as though something was bubbling up, threatening to drown her even as it parched her throat.

For the worst ones, she could do nothing but curl up long after her tears ran dry.

More things would disappear, during those fits. Things related to why she felt so strongly.

When the world turned dull, she almost felt relieved. It didn’t stop the fits, but they were lesser.

Maeve wished she were a bird. Birds could go anywhere and do anything.

* * *

At nine the monsters came and Maeve ran. She didn’t know what they were, or even why she ran. It would have been easier to stay. To let them do away with her. But she did.

Birds can't fly if their wings are clipped.

The pain got worse.

Maeve got used to the smell of iron and scarlet on metal.

* * *

Camp Halfblood was a reprieve. Sometimes the world wasn’t so dull, and strawberries never tasted so good. Her knife only ever cut hair, now.

She didn’t mind that her parent hadn’t claimed her yet. Anything was better than before.

Still, being close to people was terrifying. She’d hurt them. They’re hurt her. No matter how many times they tried to reassure her, it didn’t work.

Things still disappeared, sometimes, and the pain didn’t stop.

She learned to weave baskets and rope. The naiads were good teachers.

One by one, the feathers grew in.

* * *

Thirteen.

Maeve was supposed to have been claimed by now.

Why?

_Why?!_

Was she really so undesirable that a god would rather break an oath on the Styx than claim her?

Her mother was right.

What did she deserve.

_Nothing._

Less than nothing.

Warm drops fell from torn pinions.

She brought only anger and hardship.

Why bother living if‒

Warmed washed over Maeve. Not the burning heat of a fit, the kind that brought her to her knees. No. Gentle and soft, like- like- 

An old memory stirred, so old she’d forgotten she’d ever known, so faint it was barely there now. It was like what her mother’s touch used to feel like.

Maeve had ended up by the hearth. The girl always tending it smiled gently and patted the seat next to her.

Maeve hesitated for only a moment before taking the invitation since it was right in front of her. She kept some distance between them.

The girl said nothing, only tending to the dying flames.

The comfort, however sweet, did not prevent a fit. Oil boiled in her chest, her fingers and toes grew so cold it felt like they’d snap.

Maeve stumbled away. Quills fluttered in her wake, staining the ground red. She didn’t know how far she got before the pain grew tenfold as the comforting warmth burnt up like brush.

When she was conscious again, deep marks scarred the earth where she fell, and Maeve again feared herself.

* * *

Maeve sat in Chiron’s office. Nothing was registering anymore. Not Chiron’s faux calm expression, not the bronze plating on the walls.

_Chaos._

A shapeless void. The nothing before everything. 

The name reverberated painfully through her skull.

Somehow, some part of Chaos’s consciousness made its way to the mortal realm.

Chiron continued talking. She didn’t hear him. She didn’t want to know what the gods wanted with her.

She nodded along, numbly.

That night she didn’t sleep. In the morning her fingers were numb from working so much.

* * *

Wings violently clipped for a final time, three days later she was found hanging in the forest.

**Author's Note:**

> Why aren't there children of the Primordials?
> 
> This. All of this.
> 
> Also what exactly do y'all think is going on here. I want to hear your interpretations.


End file.
